


sir, this is a bakery. please stop crying.

by yokolite



Category: Naruto
Genre: Crack, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, F/M, Gen, Kinda Crack, and uh haha... maybe some angst, but she's still better than me, futaba sucks, hate that, idk just dumb humour, kind of si-oc kind of not, see it gets awkward when the romance happens so i don't claim her, soon™
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:08:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26714971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yokolite/pseuds/yokolite
Summary: In which Yosano Futaba learns to bake and not much else, choosing to spend her time idly nudging the events surrounding one Hatake Kakashi into disarray and being a sufficiently depressing person. She claims she's trying to out-emo him. She's just shy.
Relationships: Hatake Kakashi/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 55





	1. therapy should not sound so revolutionary.

In all honesty, the first sign that things were very, very wrong wasn't the different language everyone was speaking, or the complete absence of a familiar religion, history and world geography, or even the fact that I, at the very mature age of five, remembered my sixteenth birthday. Even the startlingly vivid dreams that felt way too much like memories rather than imaginations could be ignored because obviously that couldn't be possible, right?

No, the first sign that I was well and truly fucked came in the form of one old man with shockingly white hair and a name that tugged at the corners of my memories (dreams, definitely not memories, haha, that's impossible-) and one stupid, stupid question: "Futaba-chan, do you want to be a ninja?"

The obvious answer: no. Absolutely not. Because, what the hell, I was five. What five year old chooses to run off into a warzone and die? Nope, not me. Not happening. I was staying far, far away from that whole mess.

The quickest way to dissuade people of anything, in my experience of five (and seventeen, kind of, maybe, possibly) years, was to be as annoying as possible. And this old man and my parents all had very blatant peeves, one more so than the others.

"I dunno," I said, speaking the words slowly and carefully. Learning a third language when you could barely remember the first two could only ever end in flames and disaster (especially when the two other languages she claimed to know didn't exist). "Does every ninja need therapy like you do?"

The old man frowned. "I don't need therapy," he denied, and I knew immediately that this was, once again, my complete win. Ninjas, on their off days, are not immune to the wonders of distraction and self-criticism.

"Oh." He squinted at me suspiciously at my unconvinced tone. "That's worse," I elaborated.

Papa tried to hide his snickers behind his hand and failed. I beamed at him.

Hatake Sakumo didn't visit for the next three days and Papa spent every one of them glancing nervously at the bakery entrance a dozen times, sending me scolding looks and telling me I went too far. Friendly overtures made in attempt to get him to please stop blaming me for the old man's declining will to live all ended in failure, leaving me just about ready to charge into the old man's house and drag him out.

Fortunately, the old man chose to reappear before I had to resort to such drastic measures. And he had one simple comment on the whole fiasco.

"You were right."

I sniffed. "Of course I was."

Papa was not very happy this time.

* * *

It was when I was all of six years of age that I realised, with a crash and a bang and a pot colliding with my head maybe giving me a concussion, that the old man's name was _Hatake Sakumo_ and his son had his exact white hair at the ripe old age of four. And, of course, his name set off a million alarm bells in my head, because _I knew it before I heard it, this boy must be--_

"Say hi, Futaba-chan! This is Kakashi-chan!" The old man was all smiles and cheer, usual world-weariness ripped out and stuffed under some rug in his head like all his other issues. Not that that was any of my business, especially not _now_. Not when his son was _him_.

 _Hatake Kakashi_. Kakashi of the Sharingan. Friend-killer Kakashi.

_Uzumaki Naruto's sensei Hatake Kakashi, from a fucking manga._

I smiled primly, and bolted for my room.

The sounds of my parents' shocked screams chased me through the halls, accompanied by Sakumo's confounded snickering, but I refused to stop, legs pumping with adrenaline I didn't know I had. This was all so wrong, nothing was real, _nothing was real!_ I didn't exist! As if having seventeen extra years of memories wasn't bad enough!

* * *

A couple of years down the line, I, unfortunately, learned to live with it. And, even more unfortunately, Kakashi promptly forgot my wild race of avoidance by the next time we met, and decided to be a right brat. Or maybe he did it because he remembered? Whatever. The Hatakes _needed_ to move out of this village, effective immediately, out of concern for my well-being, because I couldn't possibly be alright in any way if I was coming to terms with existing inside a fictional universe.

But, hey, that's just life.


	2. getting terrorised by a brat was not in the daily checklist.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sakumo is very alive and, unfortunately, very eager to throw the kid who told him to go to therapy under the bus that was shinobi life with a war edging on the horizon. But hey, we're just here for the jokes, so let's meet the squad!

Konoha was gross.

No, I was not whining simply because I was a child and children existed to be contrary. I _was_ whining because Konoha, quite frankly, sucked. With the seven hundred chapters of Naruto wanting to become the very best--wait, that was not Naruto. The strongest ever? The, uh, the master of the elements? No, that was still wrong...

Anyways, that was not the point. When it was Naruto struggling through the world of death and war and politics, it was entertaining. Oddly amusing. Recreational. When it was _me_ getting shoved into that cutthroat world? 0/10. Would not recommend. I wanted my phone and comfy bed and less absurd career aspirations back. Could I make a living writing flowery, probably unconvincing Konohan propaganda in a foreign language that no one else in this world spoke? Was that an option? Was that a respectable option?

My parents' blank stares made it clear that it was not. The same could be said about mister old man's muffled snickering and brat-Kakashi's confused head tilt. 

"To have the opportunity to enter the Academy is a matter of pride, Futaba," Himiko, my unfortunate mother, said. "Because of Sakumo-san's recommendation, you've been given an opportunity most civilians never receive. You can't possibly be thinking of declining."

So my parents, like mister old man, wanted me to fuck off into a warzone and come back in a body bag. They really sounded like they would be genuinely honoured if that happened.

"But I don't want to."

"You don't-"

Father wisely cut mother off. "I'm sure it'll grow on you," he said. "It will be a wonderful learning experience."

"Does my opinion even matter?"

"No." Father looked despairingly at mother, but she wouldn't budge. "This is not the time for your petty tantrums, Futaba. You will be attending the Academy and that's that."

* * *

It turned out to be even worse than I expected.

There were expectations. Painfully many of them. Civilian children had to jump extra hurdles to meet the required Academy quotas of murderer etiquette. The days were long, the classes shockingly boring, the teachers downright awful. Not to mention the joke that was kunoichi classes.

But. _But_ none of those were the worst thing about this.

The _worst thing of all_ was the white-haired brat always, always, always sitting next to me.

Every time I dozed off mid-lesson, the brat would rudely drag me back to awakeness with a jab in the ribs. It even became routine. My ribs were becoming sturdier by the day. I doubted this was a certified training method. Whenever I attempted to ditch the once-a-week flower arrangement classes (okay, I might have hated attending the Academy, but I was promised _magic_ and _weapons_ , not some flower code I could have memorised off any random book!), the brat would appear in true shinobi form out of thin air and drag me back.

We weren't even in the same age group! Why was he flaunting his prodigal genius or whatever it was just to harass me?!

And the icing on the cake was that, if I ever so much as _thought_ about ditching the Academy, even if it was a fleeting thought that lasted no longer than 0.01 seconds, _the brat would know._

"Buzz _off_ , I'm going, okay? I'll be there! Leave already!"

"That's not very nice," father said, with no real weight, given the smile he was covering with his coffee cup.

Brat-Kakashi was equally unaffected. "You're planning on splitting at the intersection and holing up in the library, aren't you." That was not a question.

"I'm not!" That was not the truth.

Brat-Kakashi gave me a look that said he didn't believe me for a second. I only barely managed to down a glass of water before he was dragging me out the front door, waving a polite goodbye to my father as he did. Yosano Takagi smiled indulgently and refused to come to my rescue. So, yet another day in that hellhole it was.

* * *

It turned out that the brat was not the only overly-capable kid his age. Three months into my first year at the Academy, when I was freshly eight and brat-shi was bordering on six, two new brats joined our class.

I got all of two minutes to puzzle over their names and appearances and decide I did not remember them from any form of media I may or may not have consumed in a questionable previous life, and promptly forget their entire introduction, before I was suddenly in the custody of not one brat caretaker, but _three_.

I stared in aghast horror as the duo of new faces promptly attached themselves to the only other kid their age in the room and, consequently, myself. The girl was all smiles and honest cheer, even as her knees knocked in obvious nervousness. The boy was _loud_ about everything one could possibly be loud about and more. He screamed at the brat (well-deserved) for so much as existing in the girl's line of sight (okay, maybe not as much so) and got himself with a face-full of hard floor.

Thankfully, I was not the only one exhausted by our new tag-alongs. Not as thankfully, brat-shi's patience was much, much thinner, and that meant me getting dragged out a window, because he was just that dedicated to his ill-assigned duties. Really, who was it? Who did I have to blame for this predicament? The old man? Mother? Father? The Hokage? Yeah, let's blame the Hokage. Less personal involvement.

Oh, but of course the brats had to follow us out the window. And call it a fun excursion. And end the day with some shitty line like "Today was fun!" and "Let's hang out again tomorrow!"

Why. Why me.


End file.
